THE DAWN
M. le Comte de Stainville only shrugged his shoulders when M. de
Belle-Isle and young de Lugeac brought him milor's reply.
"Bah!" he said with a sneer, "he'll have to fight me later on or I'll
hound him out of France! Never fear, gentlemen, we'll have our meed of
fun very soon."
On the whole Gaston was not sorry that this stupid so-called "affair
of honour" would not force him to rise before dawn. He had no special
ill-will against _le petit Anglais_, for whom he had always tried to
cultivate a modicum of contempt. He had not always succeeded in this
praiseworthy endeavour, for milor as a rule chose to ignore M. de
Stainville, as far as, and often more than, courtesy permitted.
The two men had not often met since the memorable evening when milor
snatched the golden prize which Gaston had so clumsily cast aside.
Their tastes were very dissimilar, and so was their entourage. Milor
was officially considered to belong to the Queen's set, whilst Gaston
clung to the more entertaining company of Madame de Pompadour and her
friends; nor had M. de Stainville had the bad grace to interfere with
his wife's obvious predeliction for Lord Eglinton's company.
The memorable day which was just drawing to its close had seen many
changes--changes that were almost upheavals of old traditions and of
habitual conditions of court life. Gaston had deceived and then
hideously outraged the woman whom long ago he had already wronged. A
year ago she had humiliated him, had snatched from him the golden
prize which his ambition had coveted, and which she made him
understand that he could not obtain without her. To-day had been his
hour; he had dragged her down to the very mire in which he himself had
grovelled, he had laid her pride to dust and shaken the pinnacle of
virtue and integrity on which she stood.
That she had partly revenged herself by a public affront against Irène
mattered little to Gaston. He had long ago ceased to care for _la
belle brune de Bordeaux_, the beautiful girl who had enchained his
early affections and thereby become a bar to his boundless ambition.
The social ostracism--applicable only by a certain set of puritanical
dévotes--and the disdain of Queen Marie Leszcynska which his wife
might have to endure would be more than compensated by the gratitude
of Pompadour and of His Majesty himself, for the services rendered by
Gaston in the cause of the proffered English millions.
But for him the expedition against the Stuart prince could never have
been undertaken; at any rate, it had been fraught with great
difficulties; delays and subsequent failure would probably have
resulted. Gaston de Stainville felt sure that in the future he could
take care that the King should never forget his services.
After his wife's indiscreet outburst he feared once more for the
success of the plan. Remembering Lydie's reliance on _Le Monarque_ and
her commander, he declared himself prepared to start for Le Havre
immediately. He was quite ready to display that endurance and
enthusiasm, in the breakneck ride across the fields of Normandy, which
Lydie had thought to find in him for the good of a noble cause.
Gaston de Stainville's pockets were always empty; the two millions
which the King had promised him would be more than welcome. His
Majesty had even offered to supplement these by an additional half
million if _Le Monarque_ sailed out of Le Havre before sunset on the
morrow.
The incident of the duel with milor would have delayed matters
and--who knows--perhaps have made that pleasant half million somewhat
problematical. Therefore Gaston received the news of the refusal with
a sardonic grin, but not with real impatience.
He felt really no great ill-will toward Lord Eglinton; but for that
incident when he was forcibly made to measure his length on the
parquet floor, Gaston would have willingly extended a condescending
hand to the man whose wife he had so infamously wronged.
The incident itself had angered him only to the extent of desiring to
inflict a physical punishment on milor. Sure of his own wrist as the
most perfect swordsman in France, he had fondled the thought of
slicing off a finger or two, mayhap a thumb, from the hand of _le
petit Anglais_, or better still of gashing milor's face across nose
and cheek so as to mar for ever those good looks which the ladies of
Versailles had so openly admired.
Well! all these pleasant little occurrences could happen yet. M. de
Stainville was quite sure that on his return from Le Havre he could
provoke the Englishman to fight. Milor might be something of a
coward--obviously he was one, else he had accepted so mild a
challenge--but he could not always refuse to fight in the face of
certain provocation, which would mean complete social ruin if
disregarded.
The hour was late by the time Gaston de Stainville had bade good-night
to Belle-Isle and Lugeac. Together the three men had drunk copiously,
had laughed much and sneered continually at the pusillanimous
Englishman.
"This comes of allowing all these aliens to settle amongst us," said
de Lugeac impudently; "soon there will be neither honour nor chivalry
left in France."
Whereupon de Stainville and Belle-Isle, both of whom bore ancient,
aristocratic names, bethought themselves that it was time to break up
the little party and to turn their backs on this arrogant
gutter-snipe.
The three men separated at midnight. De Lugeac had a room in the
palace, and Stainville and Belle-Isle repaired to their respective
lodgings in the little town itself.
Soon after dawn Gaston de Stainville was on horseback. He started
alone, for that extra half million was dangling before his eyes, and
he was afraid that companionship--even that of a servant--might cause
unlooked-for delay. He had a hundred and eighty leagues by road and
field to cover, and soon the day would become very hot. He meant to
reach Le Havre before five o'clock in the afternoon; within an hour
after that, he could have handed over his instructions to Captain
Barre, and seen _Le Monarque_ unfurl her sails and glide gracefully
out of the harbour: an argosy anon to be laden with golden freight.
The little town of Versailles had scarce opened its eyes to the new
day when the clink of a horse's hoofs on her cobble stones roused her
from her morning sleep.
A few farmers, bringing in their produce from their gardens, gazed
with keen interest at the beautiful animal and her gallant rider. The
hour was indeed early for such a fine gentleman to be about.
Soon the rough paving of the town was left behind; the sun, who at
first had hidden his newly-awakened glory behind a bank of clouds, now
burnt his way through these heavy veils, and threw across the morning
sky living flames of rose, of orange, and of vivid gold and tipped the
towers and spires of distant Paris with innumerable tongues of fire.
Far away the clock of Notre Dame tolled the hour of five. Gaston
cursed inwardly. It was later than he thought, later than he had
intended to make a start. That business of the duel had kept him up
longer than usual and he had felt lazy and tired in the morning. Now
he would have to make top speed, and he did not feel as alert, nor so
well prepared for the fatigues of a long day's ride, as he would have
been two years ago, before the enervating dissipations of court life
at Versailles had undermined the activity of his youth.
Fortunately the ground was soft and dry, the air keen and pure, and
Gaston spurred his horse to a canter across the fields.